


Untitled

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dildos, M/M, Rimming, Tentacles, True Forms, conversation issues, flaccid cock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean was already on his knees, wrists bound in baby soft pink ribbon, knuckles resting in the small of his back as he suckled Castiel’s flaccid cock. Castiel palmed Dean’s head, the wide spread of his hand following the curve of his skull, fingers the tracing the cowlicked curls at his nape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> Though the sex is consensual, there is a certain aspect of non-communication going on which is addressed but never really resolved within the fic. Flaccid cocks, rimming, tentacles, and strap-ons guest star beside their communication issues. Regarding vessel consent issues: the fic is based along the premise that, post season 4, Castiel is no longer in Jimmy’s body but a replica of Jimmy’s body (similar to what happened to Anna when she became an angel again). The issue of Castiel using Jimmy's mien, if not his body, is not addressed. Also, spoiler alert: Castiel is an asshole.

On his knees, wrists bound in baby soft pink ribbon, knuckles resting in the small of his back, Dean suckled Castiel's flaccid cock. Castiel palmed Dean’s head, the wide spread of his hand following the curve of his skull, fingers tracing the cowlicked curls at his nape. 

His eyes were wide, alert, tracking the slow spread of Dean’s blush down his neck, across his shoulders, from his chest. How Dean’s length hardened the closer Dean sucked him, his tongue playing with the slit, the glans, as he nosed close to Castiel’s shorn genitals, breathing deeply against his skin with his eyes drifted closed. 

Finally, when Dean’s own erection began to weaken, he pulled off Castiel’s still soft cock, and Castiel let his hand fall away as Dean tilted his head up. “Come on, Cas, why you gotta be like this?”

With his other hand, Castiel traced the soft yield of Dean’s throat, until his fingers found the soft jut of his chin, and he guided Dean to his feet by applying the slightest pressure there. He turned Dean so they stood flush together, and whispered, “Go to the bed.”

Dean did, kneeling on the mattress, eyes facing the wall. Behind him, Castiel stripped from his clothes, observing the way the muscles in Dean’s neck tensed and flexed—presumably with the resisted temptation to turn around and peek. 

Castiel untied the ribbon around Dean’s wrists, his own hands looping loose around Dean in its place as he guided Dean into just the right position so that he was open, available. Absently, Castiel noted that Dean's cock was just as soft now. 

He braced his hands against Dean to still his minute, little thrusts towards him, towards his mouth, his body betraying how eager he was for this, for Castiel’s tongue. 

Castiel lowered his face, and licked where Dean wanted him to lick, licked until Dean slumped messily and sloppily into the pillows, his breaths hedged with moans, teeth biting into the rough cotton pillows in a futile attempt to muffle his noise, the soft, broken syllables that fell from his lips—but it was too late, Castiel had already heard them.

But even if Dean had been able to mute his voice, it would have done nothing to still the tremors of his body as Castiel’s tongue thrust into him in time with the rapid beat of his heart—or the way that the sex-flush stained his shoulders—or the way his cock, now hard again, glistened at the tip—

Castiel stopped when aspects of his true form escaped this vessel’s orifices—when dimpled tentacles rose from the depths of his stomach through his throat, thrusting their way out this human mouth, scraping against this vessel’s blunt, human teeth as they reached for the broad expanse of skin laid out before them, reaching for Dean even as Castiel pulled human body back. 

The tentacles shivered as they encountered the vibrations of Dean’s voice, even though he was muffled mildly by the pillows. “Don’t leave me like this, you son of a bitch—”

Castiel grunted—incapable of speech, the tentacles crowding out his tongue. As he reigned the tentacles back to where they belonged—tucked safely back inside of him—he slipped into the strap on, the plastic dildo heavier and thicker than the human cock still hanging limp between his legs. He slicked the dildo with lube—the kind that Dean had picked up from the drug store, tossing it wordlessly to him—and pressed slowly and methodically into Dean, until he bottomed out. His back arched away from Dean, palms resting lightly on the spurs of Dean's hips, and he thrust slowly, watching through half-lidded eyes at the way Dean’s hand crept down to jack himself, and then he quickened his rhythm until Dean had to use both hands to brace himself against the bed, to provide enough leverage to push back against Castiel’s pace.

Castiel slowed gradually, slowed to lazy figure eights so that he could grasp Dean’s cock and, with a deliberate, lingering stroke, he brought Dean to orgasm. 

Dean cried out, as he always, and his shudders racked his body like he was only made of earth. Castiel watched as he undid the straps of the strap-on, and stepped from them as they fell to the floor. 

He willed his clothes to him, tucking his still flaccid cock into his trousers before pulling up the zipper. Just as he was about to leave, Dean caught his wrist, his fingers finding the hollow spaces between the bones. Castiel tilted his head. If Dean squeezed so much harder, or twisted just that way, he could break this fragile human wrist.

Dean did none of those things. “Wait,” he said, voice hoarse from the sex. He put his other hand on Castiel’s hip, crawled along the mattress so they were chest to chest, though Castiel still stood a head above him. He chose to linger his gaze on Dean’s mouth, now bitten red. “Let me do you too. You always make me come. Fair’s fair.”

Castiel twitched away from Dean’s grasp. “I don’t need it.”

Dean licked his lips, letting his gaze drop to Castiel’s crotch, then raking it up to his face. “But do you want it? Or something else? C'mon Cas, give me a bone here.”

"I’m not like you, Dean," Castiel said. "I’m an angel. We do not want."

Dean pushed himself from the bed and jerked on his faded boxer shorts. “Right,” he said. “You don’t want things. Human things. Human things like trying to find god or your dead-beat dad?” Dean pulled on his worn, knee-patched blue jeans and a grey t-short. “You ever wonder if you’re so full of crap you’ve bought into your own bullshit?”

Castiel pulled himself away, hands stuffed in the trench coat. Jimmy’s trenchcoat had been filled with stale peppermint candies and crushed receipts. The likeness of Jimmy’s trench coat that he wore, just like the likeness of his old vessel, was empty now. “I don’t feel the need to justify myself to you, Dean.” His fists were clenched in those empty pockets know, the soft threads of the fabric pushed so tight against his knuckles so he could feel where each fine thread ended and the next began. The definitions of this body sharper than he was used to. He ran his tongue over his teeth, rubbed the pads of his fingers together, tried to blunt the harsh sensation of their extremities from him. 

"Screw you, Cas," Dean said, crossing the motel room until he reached the door so he could throw it open. 

Castiel did not give Dean the satisfaction of leaving by door, instead choosing to flicker through the folds of space to elsewhere.


End file.
